


Throw, Catch, Fly, Steal, Out

by htbthomas



Category: Chronicle (2012)
Genre: Baseball, Bittersweet, Friendship, Gen, Training, Yuletide 2012, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-20
Updated: 2012-12-20
Packaged: 2017-11-21 19:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/601480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas/pseuds/htbthomas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve lifts a baseball off the top of his dresser, smiling. "What about this?" He passes it from hand to hand, keeping it moving as he talks. "Something small, something easy."</p><p>Andrew looks at the ball with distaste. "Ugh, maybe something else?"</p><p>Matt chuckles. "Andrew never even played T-ball."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Throw, Catch, Fly, Steal, Out

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/gifts).



> Thanks to blithers for the lookover!

Andrew hefts the baseball in his hand. It doesn't fit—it's too large, or his hand is too small. The glove on the other hand is filling with sweat and creaks oddly when he tries to squeeze it together.

"Just throw it, _Jesus,_ " his father says.

He tosses it up, almost doesn't catch it. Then with all his might, he throws it toward his dad.

It doesn't come close, hitting the ground several feet in front of his dad and rolling to a stop. He can hear his dad curse under his breath, and though he can't hear the words, he gets the gist. "Again," he sighs with frustration before picking up the ball and tossing it back.

* * *

Steve lifts a baseball off the top of his dresser, smiling. "What about this?" He passes it from hand to hand, keeping it moving as he talks. "Something small, something easy."

Andrew looks at the ball with distaste. "Ugh, maybe something else?"

Matt chuckles. "Andrew never even played T-ball."

"Really?" Steve is still moving the ball all around, like perpetual motion. Andrew wonders if it's natural talent or the powers. Probably a little of both.

Andrew makes a face. "Sports." He doesn't elaborate.

"I still think we should use this," Steve says, his eye completely on the movement of the ball. "Think fast!" Without warning the ball is flying toward Matt.

"Whoa!" Matt ducks and it slams against the wall, then ricochets off his back. "Ow! Dude."

Steve laughs, "Heh! Yeah, not sorry." 

His laughter is open and infectious. Andrew laughs with him, enjoying the camaraderie.

Matt glares at both of them, but spends a little longer time on his cousin. He picks up the ball. "You think that's funny, Andrew?" 

The ball is in Andrew's hand without conscious thought. Somehow, he caught Matt's vicious close-range throw.

"Hell, yeah!" Steve crows. 

"Damn," Matt adds.

Andrew turns the ball over in his hands thoughtfully—it almost seems to hum there like a thing alive. "Okay, let's use this for the test. I'll get the camera."

* * *

The wind is whipping at his hair, pushing his bangs into his eyes. Steve is flying in the center of the cloud, his head poking up above the misty tendrils. "You ready?" Steve calls.

"Bring it," Andrew shouts back.

The ball soars toward him just as another gust blinds him. But it doesn't matter. The ball thunks into his hand securely, like a magnet with a chunk of iron. 

"Too easy, man." Steve sinks down out of sight. "Throw it back now."

"Okay," Andrew says, and whips it forward, aiming about ten feet above his target.

Steve zooms up to catch it, bare-handed. "You mean to do that?"

Andrew smirks.

"Okay," Steve draws out the words, "if that's how you gonna play it..." He winds up and then throws the ball straight down.

Andrew's eyes flick toward it. Should he chase it or bring it to him? With a small grin, he decides. 

The ball arcs around in a giant circle, down and behind Andrew; Steve watches it move with intense interest. Then it rockets around past Andrew as if it is going to bean Steve between the eyes...

_thump_

Andrew is right there, catching the ball inches from Steve's forehead.

Steve shakes his head slowly, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "We gotta take this show on the road."

* * *

Andrew looks out between the curtains, squinting at the bright footlights. The crowd is restless from the act before them—he can feel the buzzing of conversation and derisive laughter as loudly as if it were coming off a speaker an inch from his ears. He tunes it out with a shake of his head.

"You nervous, man?" Steve asks gently, placing his hand on Andrew’s shoulder. "Don't be nervous. You're gonna rock."

Andrew rolls his shoulders, one then the other, and shakes his legs out. "No, yes, not sure."

"You are gonna steal the show. None of those chumps has _any_ idea what you can do. Remember that."

Andrew looks Steve in the eye. "We are gonna _blow_ their minds."

" _Yeah_ , we are." Steve digs in his pocket for a minute and pulls out a white ball. "Here."

Andrew glances down. It's a baseball, is it... "The one from your room?"

"Yeah. Use it in the juggling part." He winks. "For luck."

The crowd suddenly claps and cheers for the last act, and the student emcee comes out onto the stage. "Now I want you guys to give it up for the young and very talented Mister Andrew Detmer!" 

Steve pats him on the back as he makes his way out on stage. "I'll be right behind you. You got this!"

Andrew throws one last look over his shoulder, smiles, and steps through into the spotlight.

* * *

Andrew squats before Steve’s grave in the cemetery, rocking back and forth. His words tumble out, apologizing, explaining, words that mean nothing. His blood sings with anger, pain, regret—he’s on fire with all of it. He wants to tear apart the entire cemetery... no, he wants to drill himself into a hole, a grave six feet, sixty feet, six thousand feet deep.

He sees all the gifts, the flowers, the mementos in front of the grave, all from people who loved Steve. None of those people know that Steve is in that grave because it's Andrew’s fault. His stupid fault. He can’t even tell Matt. How can he? He messed up the one real friendship he's ever had, just because he was _embarrassed_. What a dick. What a goddamn fucking dick.

He jams his hands into his jacket pockets, his fists in tight balls of rage. But one hand touches something there, in the right pocket—the baseball, Steve's baseball. He curls his fingers around it, feeling every crack, every stitch, the rubber and cork, down to the molecular level. His control has gotten so good that he could turn the ball inside out with just a thought. 

He could turn _himself_ inside out with just a thought. His last thought. It's what he deserves.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

Then the thought of Steve, smiling at him with encouragement, praising him for being the best of them, calms him. He unclenches his fingers and smooths them gently over the leather. He takes several deep breaths. He knows what he has to do.

But before he does, he lifts the ball from his pocket and turns it in his fingers one last time. "This is yours, Steve." Then he presses the ball between two bouquets, down into the dirt below where no one but he and Steve will see it, and walks out of the cemetery.


End file.
